


A Panacea for the Inebriated Forger

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Fic, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly 48 continuous hours on a case, the team end up at Clinton's place, where much scotch is consumed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Panacea for the Inebriated Forger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tjs_whatnot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/gifts).
  * Translation into Italiano available: [Il perfetto rimedio per la sbronza del falsario (translation by Nik Halden)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/574925) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> Many thanks to mergatrude for beta.

The White Collar unit spent two solid days and nights chasing Bart Summers, crooked CFO and suspected kidnapper, before they ran him to ground at 4.30am in an empty office block near the Park. Uniforms took him away, EMTs saw to Tim Erickson, the scared but unharmed kidnappee, and since they were only two blocks and change from Clinton's place, and the rest of the team was too keyed up to sleep just yet, they went there, where Clinton hastily threw a few scattered pieces of clothing toward the bedroom and broke out the celebratory scotch.

The first round, Neal complained about the quality, Diana rolled her eyes at him ("It's five a.m.—who cares if it's cheap?") and Peter drained his glass, thanked them all for their hard work and announced he was going home to his wife.

The second and third rounds, Diana and Neal argued about the case, Neal insisting they would've caught Summers sooner if it hadn't been for the constraints of warrant law, and Clinton sat back in his armchair and watched them, entertained and too high on sleep deprivation to do much else. Neal was right, but that was kind of the point of warrant law: due process. Clinton started pouring himself half-measures.

By the fifth round, things had taken a turn for the philosophical, and Neal was holding forth drunkenly. "The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you," he said. "You just got to find the ones worth suffering for."

Diana snorted. "That is such bull."

Neal had relocated to the floor with his back to the bookcase, and he looked up at her, blinking as if he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus properly. "How is that bull? How?" 

"You have the best friend in the world in Peter," she said, pointing at him. "You have a landlady who inexplicably adores you—"

"Don't forget the little guy," said Clinton.

"And him." Diana nodded with inebriated emphasis. "And what about us? When have we ever hurt you?"

"Maybe Caffrey thinks 'hurting him' means 'not letting him commit whatever felonies he feels like," suggested Clinton.

"Ha!" Diana reached across to clink glasses with him.

"No, no," said Neal. "No, you don't get it. You don't get it. I don't mean like back-stabbing or betrayal—though I've had my share of that—"

"And dished out your share, for that matter," said Clinton.

Neal waved that aside. "I mean—don't you feel it too? That exquisite ache, that pain just below the ribcage, that _caring_? _Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? / Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior._ "

Diana blinked and let out a crack of laughter. 

"What?" said Neal. " _What?_ "

"You are very drunk," explained Clinton, because it didn't seem worth getting into the fact that a) most people didn't quote Latin when they were intoxicated, and b) most people didn't find emotional attachments painful, just by their very being. For most people, attachments just were. Only in the sociopathic world of a con artist could they be considered a fatal flaw. "Here, have another drink."

Neal held out his glass, and Diana, who'd been frowning into the bottom of her own, held up her hand and said, "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait."

Clinton stopped pouring and obediently glanced across, but she was pointing a semi-accusatory finger at Neal.

"It's not like you can choose who you care about anyway," she said, with the triumph of someone who'd discovered a logical loophole. "You can't _choose_ who to suffer for."

Neal nodded somberly. "That is one of the great tragedies of life."

"It's a crapshoot," agreed Clinton. He clapped Neal on the shoulder, man to man, and retreated to his chair. "Stop moping, Caffrey. You do all right."

Neal nodded again, this time like his head was on a spring, and scrubbed both hands down his face. "I need to cook." 

In one remarkably fluid motion, he was on his feet—though he had to steady himself against the bookshelf for a second, presumably until the room evened out. He regained his dignity in a matter of seconds, like a cat, and disappeared in the direction of Clinton's kitchen. 

Diana and Clinton watched him go. "Is he gonna cook or case the place?" said Diana, skeptically. 

"Should keep an eye on him," said Clinton. "He might burn the building down." 

"Yeah, does your insurance cover Act of Caffrey?" said Diana.

But Clinton couldn't make his limbs move. What he really wanted to do was teleport to his bed and go to sleep. Or eat. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last thing he'd eaten.

He let his head fall back while simultaneously trying to persuade himself to go check on the drunk, dangerously fatigued CI who was raiding his fridge. He could hear kitchen noises, cupboard doors opening and shutting, a mechanical whirr that might have been the electric mixer Clinton's Mom had given him years ago, when he first moved to New York, except wasn't that still in its box? And then he heard sizzling and the smell of melted butter, and time blurred. He might have dozed off. 

Someone was putting a plate in his hand. It smelled of butter and syrup. Clinton could've sworn he didn't have syrup in the place. Was Caffrey a wizard? He opened his eyes and found he was holding a plate with a golden pancake crossed with intricate lines of syrup. Diana and Neal were both in the act of sitting down, each with their own plate.

"You made pancakes?" Clinton struggled to full consciousness. "How long was I out?"

"Crepes," said Neal. 

"I made sure he turned off the cooktop when he was done." Diana was staring at her plate. "Wait a minute. This is a Picasso." She pointed at Neal with her fork. "You cooked a Picasso?"

Clinton blinked down at his crepe. The lines looked teasingly familiar, something like a New York street map. He tilted the plate to show Diana, and syrup dripped onto his knee. He wiped it up with his thumb.

"And that's Mondrian's _Abstract Trees_." Diana sounded almost mad. "Caffrey? What the hell? It's six a.m."

Clinton shrugged and took a bite of his crepe. It was crisp and sweet and delicious. On top of the scotch and the increasingly desperate need for sleep, he was already a little nauseated, but the crepe was so good, he ate it anyway.

"That's what art is for," Neal was telling Diana earnestly. He was back on the couch, his feet curled under him, his plate on his knee. His eyes were heavy. "When people hurt you, art makes everything better."

Clinton finished his pancake and shoved the plate aside, fully prepared at this stage to resume sleeping in his chair. If the others wanted to stick around, that was fine, but he was no tortured genius martyr, and he wasn't going to suffer for them. He closed his eyes and let them take care of themselves. He was done.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for." Neal.
> 
> Poem is by Catullus (translation: _i hate and i love. why do i do this, perhaps you ask? / i do not know, but i feel it happen and i am tormented._ ), fortuitously quoted by tarteaucitron on wrisomifu yesterday while I was writing this, so I snagged it.


End file.
